


I Won't Say It, No, No

by quodthey



Category: Fantastic Four, Marvel 616, Spider-Man (Comicverse)
Genre: Accidental Marriage, Aliens Made Them Do It, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-28
Updated: 2019-03-28
Packaged: 2019-12-25 08:50:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18257909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quodthey/pseuds/quodthey
Summary: Okay, so sometimes you’re having a bad day, right, so what you have to do is answer a pal’s call, and when they say, “Hey, want to go on an adventure?” you say, “Please take me as far away from here as possible,” and sometimes even when you’re having the Worst Day Ever what you have to do is to definitelynot do that.





	I Won't Say It, No, No

**Author's Note:**

> haha what's a canon 
> 
> title is from, uh, hercules' "i won't say (i'm in love)"

Okay, so sometimes you’re having a bad day, right, so what you have to do is answer a pal’s call, and when they say, “Hey, want to go on an adventure?” you say, “Please take me as far away from here as possible,” and sometimes even when you’re having the Worst Day Ever (like let’s say your boss fired you for the third time this week, you spilled your coffee, you ran out of web fluid and hit the side of a building and you’re pretty sure that someone got it on video and it’s probably going to be on YouTube within the hour, not to be specific or anything, because who could that happen to? Haha, not you, right?) what you have to do is to definitely _not do that._

Honestly, Peter still isn’t sure which time this should have been. 

\--

The thing about being friends with the Fantastic Four is that sometimes, yeah, you get to go away somewhere for a day or two, even if that’s really a month or two, and have some fun, and do some weird science, and meet some different people. It’s good, it’s fun, and nobody’s going to die because Dr Richards wanted to do some harmless tests. 

What Peter never remembers though, is that his luck? Is _the worst._

So, it started as all things do — with him opening his big fat mouth, and making a joke. Maybe someday a Peter Parker in another universe will learn that this is not the best way to live his life and maybe he could take a moment, a second, a nanosecond, to think before speaking, but unfortunately he is not that Peter Parker, no matter how many times he reminds himself. 

So, Johnny’s there, and he’s being, well. Johnny. Radiant, attention grabbing, attention seeking, irritating, hilarious, Johnny. In a suit from probably last year, because what happens when you regularly go up against weird creatures from other dimensions (and Doctor Doom who might as well be one of those weird creatures even if the Four sometimes seem to think of him more like that weird uncle you see now and then) is that your clothes sometimes get so wrecked that no matter what whacky science magic Reed Richards can work, they’re unsalvageable. 

“Oh, don’t worry, baby,” Peter says, lowering his voice and gesturing wildly at Johnny, one hand pressed to his heart. “You’re still the prettiest gal I’ve ever seen.” 

Johnny grins at him. “Gee, Mr Spider-Man, do you really think so?” he says, twirling in mid-air. “You mean I won’t be left sitting down at the ball?” 

“I’d fill up your dance card all by myself!” Peter laughs, and Johnny drops down, draping himself across Peter’s shoulders, his feet trailing across the ground. He beams at the side of Peter’s mask, before giving it a loud smacking kiss. Peter’s smile beneath the mask becomes more real, and he can feel himself soften under Johnny’s touch. It’s kind of a problem with Johnny Storm, really. You can’t help but bask a little when he’s so close to you, even if you know all his little weirdo habits like how he keeps trying to wear socks in bed even though he just burns them right off. 

“Better not,” Johnny says. “I don’t think Jonah’s heart could take it.” 

Peter puffs himself up. “Jonah’s heart? _Jonah’s_ heart?” he cries. “What about mine! You’re killing me here, Johnny. I thought we had something special!”

They look at each other for a minute. Peter’s lips twitch, before he breaks and leans back into Johnny, laughing. “Oh, God,” he wheezes. “Oh no, I just thought about—” he breaks off, laughing, and Johnny shakes his shoulder, chuckling. 

“Come on, webs, let me in on it,” he grins. 

“You,” Peter giggles. “And Jonah. _Dancing_.” And then the two of them were off, laughing into each other’s shoulders, as Johnny said things like, “But Mr Jameson, I couldn’t possibly associate with that Spider-Menace, I’m a _classy lady_.”

The rest of the family, having been doing what they actually came here to do (that is, learn cool new things about the multiverse and not pay attention to the Peter And Johnny Show, which they were already regular viewers of back home) pay them no heed, and only really notice that they were up to something when their guide X’iian spoke up. 

“It is always such a pleasure,” they say, in a tone that would maybe be classed as ‘wistful’ if they were human, “to see young ones connect so early.” 

“Hm?” Reed says, not looking up. He prodded what looked to be a tree. 

“Your young,” X’iian says. 

“Oh, yes,” he acknowledges absently, nodding as he takes readings from a flower. He looks up, finds what X’iian is looking at, and smiles when he sees Johnny and Peter clinging to each other. “Yes, Johnny and Spider-Man are very close, almost joined at the hip. Spider-Man’s practically family to us, these days.” 

X’iian trills with joy. Reed continues working. And later, Peter considers that maybe, maybe, not everything that goes wrong is his fault. Sometimes it’s also because of Dr Reed Richards. 

 

“It’s rude to turn down invitations to alien parties, is what I always say” is what Johnny insists when a group of them corner him and Peter in what passes for an afternoon on this planet. “And if they think we’re rude, we’ll never be invited back, and then I’ll get it from Sue for ruining their work.” 

Peter, being a photographer and being the one who takes photos of famous people, like Johnny Storm, when they’re at those famous parties for famous people thinks that Johnny’s motto is less “don’t turn down aliens,” and more “don’t turn down _parties_ ” but Peter also is not an idiot and people who piss off Sue Storm make a massive mistake with their life and general existence, so he sighs and nods. He’s not risking an invisible Spider-suit anytime soon, no, thank you. 

“Anything I should know?” he asks. “So we don’t, I don’t know, end up on a stick, being slow-roasted for their enjoyment? Hey wait, I have a really important question” he says, grabbing Johnny and looking at him seriously. “Do you think I’d be a honey-glazed meat or salted?” 

Johnny shoves him, exasperated. “They’re not going to eat you, Parker,” he says, then smirks. “You’re too skinny for that. Now me, on the other hand—” 

“Oh, shove off,” Peter says, chuckling as he tries to move away, but Johnny catches him with an arm around his shoulders.

“Don’t worry about it, pal,” he says. “It’s just a party. Have some food, have some drink, maybe talk to a girl without dying on the spot,” he added, swiftly dodging Peter’s elbow. “I believe in you.” 

“I talk to girls,” Peter says, defensively. “I talk to girls all the time.” 

“Uh-huh,” Johnny replies, dubious. “How many of them aren’t wearing masks and know your name?” 

Peter grumbles, and Johnny squeezes him. 

“Trust me,” he says. “It’ll be great.”

“It’ll be great,” Peter repeats, dry as the Sahara, and shakes his head. “Johnny, have you learned nothing from your time as a superhero?” 

“What do you mean?” 

“You’ve just cursed us.” 

“Pfft,” Johnny waves him off. “You’re being ridiculous. Anyway, come on, there’s a cool market down here I wanted to show you.” 

A few hours later Johnny leans on his shoulder, heavy and solid. “You can say it,” he says. “I won’t hold it against you.” 

“How magnanimous of you,” Peter says, before shovelling more food in his mouth. 

“Come on,” Johnny wheedles. “Come on, admit it. I was _right_.” 

They’re sitting in the middle of a circle around a fire, with what sounds like an orchestra playing in the background, but their instruments all look like misshapen flutes and harps. There’s laughter, music, and everyone keeps giving them food. Not a bad way to spend an evening at all.

“Even a broken clock is right twice a day, buddy,” Peter says, eating... something. The girl to his left passed it to him smiling widely at him, and refused to take it back. He has no clue what it is, but it’s purple and blue and so good, and he is so hungry. He frowns around his mouthful of weird delicious alien food. “erer e ohers?” he asks, mouth full. 

“Probably working,” Johnny says. “But it’s good to know my Peter translator works even this far out of the city.”

Peter swallows and reaches for another. At least he’s not one of those people who needs to take EpiPens everywhere. “This stuff’s amazing,” he says, thrusting some into Johnny’s hand. “Try it.” 

Johnny chews a small piece, considering. “Not bad,” he says, “but you haven’t tried this.”

He passes Peter a clay cup that someone had given him, before relieving Peter of his own bowl. The drink is sweet, and delicious, and he wanted to drink it all, but a few gestures from the guy on his right got across the point that it was for sharing. Fair enough, communal drinks aren’t the grossest thing he’s ever found. 

The music in the background swells. 

Peter drinks, and then the crowd erupts into cheers and applause, hauling them both up to dance, and pushing them together into the middle of the dance circle.

“So, uh,” Peter starts, automatically reaching for Johnny’s shoulders so he doesn’t end up falling over on someone. “What just happened?” 

“Not a clue,” Johnny says, and shrugs, before spinning them around. “It’s an alien party. Shit happens. Now, come on,” he says, taking Peter’s hand. “I’m taking pity on any future girl you date. It’s time for someone to show you how to dance.”

\--

Later, Peter’s feet ache from dancing and he’s still slightly dizzy from whatever it was they were drinking, and there are no words for how he feels about Johnny who just will not leave him alone. 

“Pete?” Johnny whispers, leaning across the space pod to prod his friend. Or, well. “Peter? Spidey?” 

Silence.

“Peterrrrrrrrr,” he whines. “Come on, I’m sorry, but also how was I supposed to know?” 

“You’d been there before!” Peter cries. “You knew what touching means to them! You knew and you didn’t tell me!” 

Johnny, a normally highly intelligent grown adult who regularly saves the world, the universe, and the multiverse, at this moment resembles nothing more than a five year old being chastised by a parent. “I may not have been paying as much attention to that as I should have,” he admits. “And it’s not like it was a big deal,” he says, in a rush. “We were just being normal. It’s not like it, y’know. Has to count.”

Sue sounds like a woman being strangled. Or maybe she’s just imagining what it would be like to strangle her brother. Right now Peter relates to Sue on like, a _spiritual_ level. She _understands_ him. For a brief second he considers what it would have been like to accidentally marry her instead but quickly decides that Death By Science when Dr Richards found out would not be the best way to go. “We told you repeatedly, Johnny,” she says. “And I very clearly remember telling you that you’re too young to get married.” 

Ben rumbles a deep laugh. “Susie,” he says, “did you really think he was listening?” 

A deep sigh, and Reed says, as calmly as he can, “Perhaps we can discuss this when we’re home.” 

Peter leans toward the centre of the car, and peers at all the knobs on the dash, mentally commiserating with Dr Richards over how hard it can be to clean gunk out of tiny keys. He doesn’t want to think about how hard it would be to get Johnny’s congealing and dried blood out of there, after Peter killed him. Slowly.

Wait. 

Home. 

Shit. 

“Oh, no,” Peter says faintly. 

“What?” Johnny asks, peering at him in concern. 

For a brief second, Peter forgot how he annoyed he was with Johnny, and stared at him, eyes wide. “Aunt May.” 

He gives it a second to allow himself to truly feel fear, before grabbing Johnny. He leaned in close and hissed, “She can’t find out, Johnny. She can’t! She’ll think it was — it was _real_ or something, and try to get you to freaking move in with me, and throw us a wedding party, and,” his face dropped. “Oh. She’s going to want photos. _So. Many. Photos_.” 

“Ah, Pete,” Johnny says, cheerful tone ringing hollow. “It’ll be fine, we can manage some snaps. And your aunt will love me, I swear. Parents love me, I’m pretty sure Jessica’s wanted to adopt me or something when we were going out.”

He drops Johnny’s arm as quickly as he’d grabbed him, and lets his face fall down to meet his knees, arms going over his head. He moans quietly to himself. 

A pause. 

“Stretch,” Ben says, quite seriously. “I think the kid’s having a breakdown.” 

“Ben, please.” Reed is almost desperate. “Not yet.” 

“I mean, I’d have one too, if I wound up hitched to the matchstick —”

“ _Ben_.”

Johnny reaches an arm around Peter, and hugged him. “Come on, Spidey,” he says. “Being married to yours truly can’t be that bad.”

And honestly? He’s right. See, the problem isn’t that Peter got married. 

It’s not that he’s married to a man, and it’s not that his only family wasn’t there. The problem is, well. That it’s Johnny. 

Wonderful, beautiful, amazing, _fantastic_ Johnny. 

Beautiful wealthy Johnny who spends so much of his free time hanging out with other beautiful wealthy people, in their beautiful homes, and expensive clubs, and driving them around in cars that he restored or that he personally designed and built because even if he likes to pretend that he’s an idiot, he’s a genius from a family of geniuses who’ve never done anything but love and encourage him. 

And yeah, they’re long past the time when Peter Parker and Johnny Storm hated each other. Which is, really, kind of the problem. Because Peter can’t imagine how he could ever hate Johnny. 

Peter can’t imagine how he could ever hate Johnny, because all he can see now is someone who is kind, and funny, and generous, and who tries so hard, and who is such a good friend to Peter, even when he fucks up, and it makes him feel like garbage. 

Because while Johnny’s being a great pal and feeding Peter on top of the Statue of Liberty and listening to him complain about his latest fight with a girl, and keeping Peter in beer and pizza and video games after (another) break-up, all Peter can think about is how much he wishes he were one of those rich beautiful girls that Johnny kisses in the papers and talks about with that look on his face, like he’s found true love.

Except, you know, not a girl. He’s pretty sure there’s a girl version of him out there and is pretty happy for her to keep living her own life, instead of him trying to move in on her territory. 

Anyway. 

Peter Parker’s life couldn’t be his life if he didn’t have a massive, world-ending problem every other week, and this week the problem isn’t so much “married!” as it is: “married to Johnny, who apparently thinks it’s a joke.” 

Yeah. 

That’s definitely one for the books.

\--

So, they’re married. There aren’t any rings and all the witnesses are in another dimension somewhere vaguely north, but they’re married and back on Earth, and Peter goes back to Aunt May’s to eat food that he knows won’t get him married to anyone, and to hide out from his landlord because the Four are geniuses who never remember what time differences are. And they’re married. And Peter goes back to normal life, where his awful dumb crush on his friend doesn’t matter. 

It’s not like it’s new, and it’s not like he’s not been _dealing_ with it, except. Except, now that they’re back here it’s a thousand times worse because Johnny Storm is _everywhere_. 

Like, yes, he’s everywhere in magazines and gossip Twitter or whatever it is that people use to keep up to date with the Fantastic Four that isn’t just climbing the Baxter Building and breaking in. But also: in Peter’s own personal life? 

Johnny Storm. Everywhere. 

Peter goes to the coffee shop near the office, because he’s not fool enough to face Jonah in the morning without loading up on enough caffeine to dissociate, but there’s good old Johnny Storm, sliding in beside him and handing over a few bills for his coffee. “You look like you could use a pick-me-up,” he says, smiling at Peter. He wraps a hand around Peter’s elbow, guiding him to a table in the corner, small and cozy and just for two. 

“You okay?” he asks, looking over Peter with a critical eye. “You haven’t been sleeping.” 

Peter sighs, drinks his coffee. “I’m fine, really.”

Johnny looks at him and Peter is uncomfortably aware of the way his shirt fits over his shoulders, and how his jacket has been repatched, and how nobody's going to be offering him a calendar shoot to match Johnny's notorious and somewhat scandalous modelling career. The last two girls Johnny dated were models, and he became way more critical of clothing after them. “Come on,” he says. “How many times have we heard that lecture about good habits? Good sleep makes good heroes, or whatever it was.” 

It’s not really a lecture that Johnny’s thinking of, just common sense, this idea people got that you do better when you’re awake and alert, and you need sleep to function. But Peter takes his point. “Sleep is for people who don’t have to completely redesign The Bugle’s website,” he says, stretching. His back cracks, and he groans. “I swear I was in that chair for fifteen hours yesterday, I’m going to die in it.” 

“Aw, Pete,” Johnny croons, leaning across the table. His warm hands cover Peter’s. “Do you need me to save you from the mean chair? Yell at your coding until it listens to you?” 

He reaches out as if to pet Peter’s hair, but Peter laughs and pushes him away. “Get off, you weirdo,” he says, but he’s grinning and he can’t look away from how Johnny seems to glow in the sunlight. 

“Anything for you, my _darling_ ,” Johnny simpers. 

Peter reaches across and pinches his cheek. “You don’t want to promise that, baby,” he says, sickeningly sweet. “You never know what I’d ask for.”

Johnny leers at him, then changes tack entirely, batting his eyes and pressing his hands to his chest. “I'd never deny you a true desire, you know that.”

Peter rolls his eyes. “Keep it down, you big lug. You don’t know who’s listening to your jokes,” he says, and keeps the smile on his face. His shoulders are relaxed. He hasn’t changed. But Johnny quirks an eyebrow at him, like he’s done something odd that he doesn’t understand. Sue calls it his confused puppy look. Peter calls it adorable. His hair looks wondrously soft and Peter drinks half a cup of steaming hot sugary coffee without taking a breath. 

Johnny laughs. “You think they know we’re hitched now?” 

“Ha ha, you’re so funny.” 

“I’m hilarious,” Johnny preens.

“I gotta go,” Peter says as he stands. “Spider-Man photos wait for no man.” 

“You should leave those Spider-Menace photos for the amateurs,” Johnny says, leaning toward him, grinning widely. “Come photograph a real hero.” 

Peter sighs. “Believe me, I would,” he says, perfectly regretful. “But Tony Stark already has a photographer.” And not even trying to hold back his laughter, he dashes out before Johnny can grab him. 

The next day, Peter doesn’t stop for coffee. The day after, he starts drinking what’s in the office. When he sees Johnny in cafes, he smiles and waves, and ducks out as soon as he can. 

They continue like this for a while, with Peter trying to balance his work and after dark activities, and trying to eat enough food at Aunt May’s that he doesn’t starve without her also thinking he’s going to be homeless any second. Johnny is spotted with Crystal, and then with another girl, and then with a boy, and then with Betty, and Peter doesn’t go to the Baxter Building because he’s busy. 

Peter goes to work. It’s fine. He’s fired again. He’s hired again. And then one day Johnny Storm is outside, with food. “You hungry, Pete? I got tacos,” he says, and Peter doesn’t mention anything about how he’s _Johnny Storm_ outside _The Bugle_ just because Peter hasn’t been to their usual lunch spot in two weeks. 

There’s no way he’s swinging up to the roof in front of all of New York just for tacos no matter how good they are, so they sit on a bench nearby instead and pretend that people aren’t taking pictures of Famous Johnny Storm (And Friend!) that are without a doubt going to be sold to Peter’s own workplace and also pretty much everywhere else ever, and when Johnny gestures wildly describing the latest way in which Reed is out to personally ruin his social life, Peter can pretend, just for a second, that everything’s fine and normal. 

And then Johnny has to go and give him that smile, eyes crinkling, and say something dumb like, _“I can’t believe my sister and I both ended up hitched to the big brain scientists, does this mean that Storms have a type? Peter, I can’t have the same type as my **sister** ”_ and laughing, as if Peter’s stomach doesn’t drop down to the pit of the earth every time Johnny thinks about that and laughs, as if the idea of being married to Peter — the idea of being _anything_ with Peter — is absolutely hilarious. 

But when he leans in to joke and whisper stories he makes up about people passing by, his smile is the same as it ever is, and his arm is a warm and comforting weight over Peter’s shoulder, and he can’t find it in himself to shrug the weight off. He leans into it instead. Johnny’s so close that Peter can smell his shampoo. 

Peter starts making lunches to take to work.

\--

Peter’s swinging around New York, minding his own business, minding muggers’ business, and walking people home, and it’s the same as it would normally be just about every other night of the week except for how Johnny Storm is a near constant presence flying nearby, cracking jokes and pointing out crime.

“Don’t take this the wrong way, firefly,” Peter says, after the third mugging of the evening. “But don’t you have your own criminals to harass?” 

“Nah,” Johnny shrugs. “The others are taking care of it. ‘Sides, we haven’t had a chance to hang out in a while.” 

Which, yeah, that's fair. But they've gone longer than not seeing each other for a few weeks, and the last few times the Great Johnny Drought ended when Peter crashed through his bedroom window missing a lot of blood that should remain in his body, no matter how much others might want it. 

“Okay, Pete, here’s what’s happening,” Johnny declares. “You’re coming over to ours for dinner sometime this week — ah, ah, nope!” he interrupts himself, when Peter tries to talk. “We haven’t seen you in _ages_ , Pete. Seriously, what _gives_. Val’s going to forget you’re even a person. Ben spent like fifteen minutes trying to convince me that you’re just a mass hallucination! It’s just dinner, man.”

“Yeah, all right,” Peter says. “I can get dinner. And guess what? We're just by my favourite hotdog stand.” He takes off, swinging close enough to Johnny that he can feel the flare in heat as he flames on.

So, they get hotdogs and eat at the top of Avengers Tower because Johnny insists it’s the best view for the sunset, and Peter drips relish on the roof that Tony Stark will never know about, and he doesn’t watch Johnny’s face as he tilts his head back and laughs, because if he can’t see, then he can’t want, and he can’t be disappointed. 

Peter’s pretty good at being disappointed. 

“I gotta swing, Johnny,” Peter says after Johnny's regaled him with the latest news of Val and Franklin's attempts to rule the world, and also to interrupt every one of Johnny's dates with — who was it, Veronique? “Aunts, you know?” 

And he leaves before he can consider what that look on Johnny’s face means. 

His phone buzzes that evening, with a message from **Hothead**. It reads:

> _Pizza & games sometime? Miss u buddy <3_

\--

“My life is over,” he says when he calls MJ. 

“Don’t be a baby,” she says without hesitation. “What happened?” 

He freezes. “Okay,” he says, slowly. “Before I say, you’re not allowed to kill me. Murder’s bad.” 

“Oh, God.” A door closes on her end. “Peter. What did you do.” 

“There was an accident. I married Johnny. Accidentally.” A bang, and cursing, like she’s hit her head off something hard. Peter winces in sympathy, presses a hand to his own tender ribs. 

“You _what_.” 

“Accidentally! Aliens were involved! MJ, I don’t know alien things, how was I supposed to know it was a _wedding_ ,” he insists. “And it’s not like it was on Earth. It doesn’t count, right. But also. Married?” 

MJ makes a furious noise that makes Peter grateful he’s not in the same room as her. “How do you accidentally marry someone?” she asks, baffled. 

“Share some food, apparently,” Peter offers. “But it’s not a real marriage,” he repeats, because it can’t be real, and Peter needs to preserve what is left of his sanity. 

“Uh-huh.” MJ doesn’t sound like she believes him, which is ridiculous, because Peter would never lie to her. She laughs slightly, fondly. “Only you, Peter.” 

Only him is right. He tries to think about Tony Stark accidentally getting married — no, wait. Too realistic. _Matt_. Matt could never accidentally marry someone. Matt’s sensible. Well. For a given value of ‘sensible’ but he’s probably more sensible than most people who decide to put on a mask and punch crime in the face. Why couldn’t he be more like Matt instead?

He flops onto his bed, feet hanging off the edge, head falling short of the pillows. He twists to look at them. “You don’t understand,” he whines. “He just keeps turning up everywhere.” People die by suffocation a lot. “He keeps touching me.” Johnny’s hand on his back. On his shoulder. His wrist. God, and that look on his face, like Peter needs to be approached like a wild animal, cornered and frightened that this big strange creature is going to be the death of it. 

Maybe that’s the solution. Death. Even Johnny Storm can’t torture him slowly if he’s already dead. 

“Are they inappropriate touches from your fake husband?” she asks, mockery dripping from every syllable, because she has seen Peter through too much anxiety and too many supervillains at this point and he can’t get away with anything, ugh. “Peter, do you need to talk to someone?” 

He turns over onto his stomach and screams into a pillow (and doesn’t pay any attention to MJ’s faint laughter, because she is a cruel woman), because really, nothing has changed. Johnny’s the same as he ever was, and he just keeps treating Peter like Peter but like during one of his bad times, and maybe it’s Peter who is the crazy one because all he can think about when Johnny throws an arm over his shoulder is their dance on the other side of the multiverse, and Johnny’s hands on his hips, and them laughing and drinking and laughing. 

“He’s just so _nice_ about it, MJ,” Peter says. “I want to die.” 

“Oh no,” she says. “A hot guy you like is being nice to you. Truly, it is the end times. Someone, call the papers.” 

Peter really could live without all this sarcasm, but he’s glad it’s MJ on the other end and not Harry or someone, because MJ won’t hold back and is deeply unfortunately aware of That Awful Johnny Storm and How He Has Ruined Peter’s Life, Forever. Not that he’s complained a lot before, or anything. Or that he’s dragged her around a hundred different stores trying to find Johnny the right Christmas gift, or birthday present. 

“Look, Pete,” she says kindly, because MJ is so kind and he doesn’t deserve her in his life. She could do so much better, he thinks to himself, than listening to her ex-boyfriend complain about being fake married to one of his best friends who he might maybe possibly _potentially_ have a bit of a crush on. “Stop worrying. It’s fine. I’m pretty sure the only thing that could ruin your friendship is if you like, murdered a guy in front of him. Maybe.” 

And then she adds, in the most fake casual tone Peter has ever heard in his life: “So, how does Aunt May feel about this?” 

It’s decided. Death is the only way. 

\--

The next time Peter sees Johnny, it’s because of an invasion of robot dinosaurs, which is nice, because they’ve been running low on those dinos. They spend the time bickering over whose turn it is to save whom, and over Peter’s inability to keep a suit intact, and taking bets on whose villain has taken to animatronics lately. It’s good. They hit all the familiar beats, and Peter forgets just for a second that Johnny is possessed by the actual literal devil and is intent on making his life hell. 

That is, until Johnny says, “See you around, husband dearest!” as he’s dragged away. Loudly. Among Peter’s _friends_. And _colleagues_. Peter briefly regrets saving him from that stegosaurus. 

Luke Cage chuckles. “Aw, man,” he says, fondly, ripping electronics from the inside of a sauropod and dropping it at his feet. “I remember when Jess and I were like that.” 

The Spider-Man mask probably doesn’t do the best job of conveying Peter’s rather impressive _what the fuck_ expression but he thinks his point is made by his wordless gesturing. “You. What? Like what?” 

Luke pulls him into a sideways hug. “When it’s so new! And you just need to tell everyone, even when you don’t need to.” 

“Johnny’s just joking,” he insists. “It was an alien thing, not like. What you’re thinking of. Accidental marriages in the workplace are a real hazard.”

Iron Man laughs mechanically from behind him. “Kid,” Tony says. “If you think we didn’t already know about the two of you, you’re not as smart as I thought.”

“The.. two... of us?” he repeats blankly. The dinosaurs weren’t releasing any toxic fumes or hallucinogens and he’s 99% sure that he isn’t in some sort of weird nightmare. His ribs hurt too much for that. He never hurts in his dreams.

All he needs for this misunderstanding to get worse is for Deadpool to show up, announcing his devastation and blathering on about Spider-husbands and — okay, no, Peter is half convinced that just thinking about Deadpool summons Deadpool and this is something he is Not Risking. Not today, Satan. Workplace murders have remained at a lovely 0 for some time now, and that’s not a streak he wants to break.

“I mean, it would have been nice,” Stark says. “To get an invitation. I haven’t had a chance to throw a party in ages.” 

Peter distinctly recalls there being a reason for that. It involved fire and, again, Deadpool. He and Johnny had grabbed some of Stark’s expensive alcohol and smuggled it out because every time someone on the Four scores against Stark, an angel gets their wings. 

“There wasn’t a party,” he says instead of screaming into his hands. “Because there wasn’t a real wedding.” 

\--

It’s a curse. It has to be. There’s no other explanation. Peter’s running through different explanations in his head — Loki! Skrulls! Parasites! Alien virus that makes you like people! Mystery illness that makes you compulsively show people your nephew’s baby photos! — when Aunt May notices him in the doorway, watching them. 

“Peter!” she says, happily. “Come in, sit,” she gestures toward the couch where there’s space next to (oh, why, why) good old Johnny. 

“Pete, my man,” Johnny says seriously. “So much about you didn’t make sense. And then,” he says, waving at a photo album. “I find out you went a scientist for Halloween, three years in a row, and now. It is so clear to me.” He peers at one of the photos he should never have seen in the first place. “This one looks kinda like Reed.”

Embarrassment squirms around in Peter’s belly, hot and uncomfortable. “Aunt May,” he says. “Why.” 

“Peter,” she says, a sly look to her eyes, and Peter doesn’t trust this, not one bit. “What else am I meant to show your new husband?”

“My, haha, my what?” Peter stammers. “I don’t know what you mean. Who is this man, who I have never seen before in my life. Aunt May, I think this is a scam, this is one of those things we get warned about in school.” 

Aunt May stares at him. “Oh, really now,” she says. “Did you think I would be anything other than thrilled for you? I know it was something of a whirlwind, but I only wish you’d told me you were seeing someone,” she continues, apparently blissfully oblivious to the fact that she’s going to be down a nephew in approximately five seconds because Peter’s heart is going to just give up entirely from the horror of this conversation. “From the way you talked about Johnny, I had some thoughts but, _Peter_.”

“What.” 

Maybe if Peter wishes very, very hard, the ground will finally open up beneath him and swallow him whole. If there is any justice in the world, for all the good things he has done, he deserve this. Just one thing. Please. Oh god. 

“Aunt May,” he grits out, when it doesn’t look like that’s going to happen. “Could I please speak to you. In another room. Alone.” 

Aunt May just _not believing_ that Peter _did not_ get married is not something he thought would ever happen to him but here he is and here it is, happening, right now, at this moment. Aunt May telling him how _sad she is_ to have missed his fake wedding to his fake husband who she thinks is _real_ (but who is going to be Real Dead, Real Quick) and _a good thing_ is not something he thought would happen but again: here he is, and here it is, happening. 

Peter goes back to bed. It’s easier. 

And it is easier — at least until Friday night, when Peter’s trying to sleep and not think about the photos on his camera and the fit JJ’s going to throw, and how nothing in life will just go the way he wants. He’s almost asleep, half dreaming of six months ago when he and Johnny were great, and work was fine, and Aunt May wasn’t insane, and he could just swing through the air and laugh. 

And then, there’s a sliding creak, and he doesn’t feel the tingle of _Danger! Danger! Danger!_ but instinct has him wide awake and leaping from his bed anyway. 

“All right,” Johnny says, climbing through Peter’s window in the middle of the night, like that’s a normal thing normal people do. “We’re doing this. We’re talking about this, like real people, dude.” 

And then he stops, and stares. “Pete, buddy,” he says, slowly. “Why are you on the ceiling.” 

“Because!” Peter says too loudly, then drops his voice to a harsh whisper. “Someone _climbed through my window at three in the morning_.” 

“You’re normally up now, anyway!” Johnny insists, like he’s not the one in the wrong here for breaking and entering, but he matches Peter’s volume. “Isn’t this normally when you’d meet Black Cat or someone?” 

“I — that is not the point!” he says. He still clings to the ceiling, head dropped back to look down at Johnny.

But Johnny just continues to stand there, hands on his hips and staring up at Peter with an expression he must have learned from Sue when he was growing up, because it instantly makes Peter feel like he’s six years old and just got caught rearranging wires. He sighs. “Come on, Pete,” he says. “I miss you. At least come down from the ceiling and tell me we can’t be friends anymore.” 

The thought of never being friends with Johnny again — there’s a hard lump in Peter’s throat, and he can’t breathe like he should be and now he has a new fear to live with. 

“That’s not what I want,” he croaks.

Johnny’s arms go up into the air so fast Peter’s surprised he didn’t catch on fire just from the speed. “Then what the _hell_ is it, Pete?” he asks. “Why’s my best friend running away from me as soon as he can every chance he gets?” 

“I —” and maybe Peter could work up the courage to say something in the face of really losing Johnny for good because he can’t get a hold of his freak out and stomp it into little pieces like he should, but he has the horrible vision of never seeing the sunrise with Johnny again, or fighting over the last slice of pizza, or sending him the worst memes of himself, and never being friends with Johnny again for good anyway because — and God, Peter’s just a coward at heart, isn’t he? “I... can’t tell you. Right now.” 

Or ever, because that would also be good. 

Johnny looks alarmed. “Are you in trouble or something?” he asks. “Because I think we can deal with it, whatever it is. Ben’s been on the warpath lately — just point him in the right direction and let him go.” 

Peter sighs, and finally lets go of the ceiling. He lands with a thud and disturbs the books sitting precariously on his desk, and cringes as he misses a few that fall, because — yeah, there we go, door opening, feet shuffling. 

“Peter?” Aunt May asks, voice bleary. “Is everything all right?” 

“We’re good, Aunt May,” Johnny says cheerfully, before Peter can stop him. He easily dodges the book thrown in his direction. “Just needed to have a word with Peter, you know how he is when you wake him up,” and he laughs, like he talks to Peter’s aunt through bedroom doors all the time. 

“Johnny! Oh, well, I’ll leave you boys too it,” Aunt May says. “Don’t stay up too late, Peter,” and she shuffles away. 

Peter stares in horror. “Aunt May?” he repeats.

Johnny squints at him. “You doing okay there?” 

“You call her Aunt May? Since when? Since when was this a thing?” and no, he is not panicking at the thought of his best friend and his aunt _hanging out_ and _gossiping_ and _talking about him_ , absolutely not. 

“Yeah, she said I should,” Johnny says. “You know, since we’re family.” 

Peter’s heart stops beating. His mind goes entirely blank. 

“I have to go,” he says, and pushes past Johnny to jump out of the window, still in his pyjamas. 

The thing is, when you jump out of your window at three in the morning in just your pyjamas to avoid having the conversation with your best friend that’s been creeping up on you for years, you don’t really tend to have anything on you that you would during the day, so Peter’s stuck walking around the block like that, refusing to feel ashamed of his Captain America print pants. Steve Rogers can be brave and so can he, eventually. Maybe. 

He paces the streets for a while, looking totally sane and normal thank you very much, before he returns to a darkened room and the awful feeling that he's only delayed an apocalypse, not shut it down. 

\--

 _ok so we should talk_ is the message Peter’s hands send to Johnny four days later. He’s hardly even aware of taking his phone out and they move by themselves, as if they might as well belong to someone else. He puts it to the back of his mind and focuses on his webslingers instead — or at least he would if he could stop glancing at the still black screen every two seconds. 

_Bzzt._ Peter contemplates throwing it out the window. If he doesn’t look at it, then he doesn’t have to know Johnny doesn’t want to be friends with the weirdo who would jump out a window to avoid talking.

He looks.

 **Hothead:**  
_Wow u think?_

_i’m sorry, i’ll explain. where are you_ is what his hands say. They have clearly sworn allegiance to someone who is not Peter.

It’ll be fine. Johnny’s given him enough chances and enough kindness and this is where he’ll draw the line, and he won’t have to —

 **Hothead:**  
_Baxter_

 _on my way_ , Peter sends instantly, because he hates himself.

He takes a detour further into the city to get pizza because if Johnny’s eating pizza then he can’t be yelling at Peter, and also means that Peter gets pizza, so really it’s a win all around, but all too soon he’s on the wall, balancing Apology Pizza and guilt. 

“You have had so many bad ideas but this is it,” Peter whispers. “The bad idea to rule them all. You idiot. What are you doing. Stop.” 

But he’s almost at Johnny’s window and he can’t stop now because that would mean the anxiety won, and sometimes you have to be your own Captain America and do something stupid. Or your own Spider-Man, as the case may be. 

The sun’s beginning to set by the time he gets through the window, taking care not to tip the pizza too far. 

“Hey, yeah, I got a delivery for a Mr Flame Brain here?” he says. “From his pal Spidey, to say sorry for being an asshole?” Normally he’d join Johnny, sprawled out on the bed, but also a lot of the time that’s because of iminent concussions and — 

“You just going to stand there for the rest of the night?” Johnny asks, sprawled out on his bed. He hasn’t moved except to turn his head toward Peter, who stands in the middle of the room, mask still on, shuffling from foot to foot. 

Peter can’t remember the last time he felt _awkward_ around Johnny Storm and he doesn’t like the return of it. 

“I was thinking the roof?” he says. “It’s a nice evening out there.” 

So they sit on the roof, and Peter rolls his mask up so he can scoff down two slices before Johnny can get his hands on them, and they’re off. Like nothing’s ever been wrong.

“Okay,” Johnny says, eventually. “We were going to talk.” 

“Yeah.” Peter doesn’t elaborate. Johnny kicks him. 

“You were the one who said!” 

“I _know_ ,” Peter says. “But that was before I actually had to talk.” 

But he takes a deep breathe, and tries not to think about how his heart is about to beat out of his chest “So, before I start, just like a disclaimer that you don’t owe me anything, everything’s fine, we can totally continue on as before,” and choking back the bile, grinds out, “or not.” 

“Or not? The hell do you mean ‘or not,’ like I’d want that?” Johnny asks, offense in every line of his body. “Spidey, seriously, just tell me. Did you kill someone? Is that what this is? Because I’m sure you had a _really_ good reason, and we can get you a good lawyer —”

Peter chokes. “You think I _murdered someone_?” Matt would kill him. _Aunt May_ would kill him. 

“You’re being weird! I don’t think anything because I have _no idea_ what could make you be like this!” He gets louder and louder, almost angry, and Peter can take a lot of things but Johnny hating him or being mad at him isn’t one of them, so he buries his face in his hands so he doesn’t have to see Johnny’s anger. 

“I’m being weird _because I like you_ , and you _think I murdered someone_.”

“Of course you like me, we’re friends,” Johnny says dismissively, still on the potential Spider-murder. 

Peter moans. Out of all the people in the multiverse, this is where he has chosen to lay his affections. 

“No, you moron,” he tells his hands. “I _love you_.” He also loves his stomach where it is, and not where it wants to be, which is outside his body. “And you like. Girls.”

An awful beat, and Johnny is silent because Peter has apparently found his mute button. “Oh.” Another pause. Peter contemplates how quickly he’d be able to swing away. “So do you always insult people when you’re telling them you love them, or?” 

Johnny would definitely be able to keep up with him, he’s pretty fast when he needs to be. 

“Pete,” Johnny says, gently. “Any chance of you looking at me?” 

“How about I turn around,” Peter suggests miserably. “You can tell me to go away then and we don’t have to look at each other.” 

But one of Johnny’s hands is wrapped around his wrist, pulling. “Come on, buddy, please” he says. “Let me see those big spider eyes.” 

There’s no way out, so Peter lets Johnny pull his hands away, and look into his face, and Johnny doesn’t look like he hates him or pities him at all. 

“Pete, you absolute dipshit,” he says gently, face lit up like the sun. “You’re so blind. I love you, too.” 

Peter has fallen into another universe. Maybe this is the one where he’s a girl. He’s heard good things about that one. 

Johnny’s hands are on his face. “Are you even listening to me right now or are you doing science? That looks like a science face.” 

“I. Didn’t think of this,” Peter says. “It was more of a ‘tell Johnny and hope he’s not in the mood for Spider flambe’ thing than a, uh, ‘have any hopes at all’ thing.” He didn’t realise how blue Johnny’s eyes were. Peter has a new favourite colour. 

“That’s because you’re an idiot,” Johnny tells him cheerfully. “Good thing I’m the brains around here, handsome.”

And then Johnny leans in, and kisses him. 

Peter doesn’t see fireworks, but that’s probably because he’s more focused on not dying instantly as his heart explodes. 

“Oh,” Peter says, intelligently. “So. You love me.” 

“Is this why you’ve been so weird?” 

“You’re not allowed to make fun of me for being weird after I accidentally married the guy I like,” Peter says. “It’s a rule now, sorry.” 

Johnny nods. “I will agree to that,” he says, “so long as you respect my rule.” 

“Oh, God.” 

“My rule is that we have to kiss enough to make up for the last like, six months of no kissing. It’s a very important rule.” 

Peter can’t believe anyone could ever think Johnny is dumb. He’s a genius. “That’s a great rule,” he says. “We should follow it, like, immediately.” 

And they do. 

\--

“Hey, Johnny,” Peter says, some time later. 

“Yeah?” 

“What are you doing Saturday evening?” Peter looks down at Johnny splayed on the rooftop, at the way the sun sets on his face, soft and sweet. 

Johnny shrugs, eyes still closed against the sun. “I don’t know yet,” he says.

A pause, then Peter nudges him slightly. “Hey, Johnny,” he says. 

“Hm?” 

“Want to get dinner with me on Saturday?” he asks. His stomach is doing somersaults, and his voice is a little shaky, but he can’t wipe the smile off his face. 

“Pete?” 

“Well, you see,” Peter says, in that tone that Johnny probably recognises as ‘Logic Is Happening Now,’ “most people date before they get married. I think we might have missed a step or two.” 

Johnny’s eyes are open now, a perfect clear blue and piercing, and Peter wants to watch him forever. A slow smile spreads across his face. “Is my husband asking me out?” he asks, a laugh in his voice. 

Peter sniffs, and turns away, looking out at the sun melting into the horizon. “Not if you’re going to take an _attitude_ with me, Mr Parker,” he says. 

“Parker-Storm,” Johnny says, closing his eyes again. He’s still smiling. Peter’s heart aches to see it, and he wants to kiss it, wants to imprint it on his heart forever. “Or it could be Storm-Parker, but I suppose you’ll need something to argue with me about on Saturday.” 

Peter thinks of a lifetime of bickering over _Parker-Storm_ versus _Storm-Parker_ , and of taking photographs of Johnny lit up like his sun, and of Johnny making him breakfast. He thinks of bringing his Aunt May to the Baxter Building for dinner with his in-laws, and having Valeria and Franklin school him in science, and going home to Johnny, always. He thinks about Johnny setting his towels on fire and burning through his clothes and setting off the shitty smoke alarm in his apartment and fighting because neither of them could claim to be Iceman. He thinks about a lifetime of going home to Johnny, and he lies down on the roof, leaning on his elbows. Peter rolls his mask up to his nose and turns slightly to face Johnny. 

“Hey. Hey, Johnny,” he says, quietly, and Johnny opens his eyes and looks at him. Peter leans in and kisses him, like he wanted to kiss him for months, like he wants to kiss him every day for the next fifty, sixty, seventy years. “I’m really looking forward to Saturday,” he says, and Johnny smiles up at him, and pulls him back down.

**Author's Note:**

> i gave myself a cavity writing this


End file.
